One Good Thing About the French

By Daniel F. Linsalata | Thursday, June 2, 2005

Manger bien et juste.—Molière

BOOK REVIEW

French Women Don't Get Fat:
The Secret of Eating for Pleasure
Mireille Guiliano
Alfred A. Knopf, 2005

I'm currently studying in Paris, and, just when I thought I could while away the term living the dissipated life of a young expatriate, I received a package from my editor. In it was a book, along with a note reading, "While you're gone, make yourself useful." Accordingly, I set to task reading French Women Don't Get Fat: The Secret of Eating for Pleasure, by Mireille Guiliano.

Mme. Guiliano did get fat—during a stint studying abroad in America—and it seems this cross-cultural experience qualifies her to write a breezy tome explaining why her countrywomen are so damn skinny. Moreover, the fact that Mme. Guiliano has managed to regain her native habits while remaining stateside—she's the CEO of a New York-based Champagne importing company—suggests that you, too, can become French in the comfort of your own home.

Now, I have long intended to follow in the renowned footsteps of Jenny Craig, Dr. Atkins, and so many others by extorting insecure, unhappy Americans for millions of dollars. I would publish a series of works called "Weight-Loss Through Using Your Head." The first installment would be entitled Eat Everything in Moderation. It would feature an ornate title page, followed by two-hundred thirty-seven pages bearing the same phrase in over-sized, bold-faced font. The second, and possibly third, editions, Stop Eating Artificial, Processed Crap and Try Something Natural, and Still Fat? Get Your Ass off the Couch, respectively, would be in the same format. The works would be elegantly bound in leather, and then clad in wrought iron, giving each volume sufficient heft to allow the reader to beat himself over the head with it, should he still not get the point. I would charge fifty or sixty dollars per book and laugh all the way to the bank, snacking on artificial, processed crap along the way.

For better or worse, however, America has been spared from the wrath of my cynicism. And, with the publication of French Women Don't Get Fat, there's now little need for such a series; Mme. Guiliano's prescriptions are nearly as simple as mine would be.

After explaining her traumatic and brownie-filled experience as an American college student and subsequent recovery under the care of "Dr. Miracle"—whose ideas constitute much of the book's wisdom—Guiliano goes on to highlight some key differences in the attitudes French and American women have vis-à-vis food. For instance, "French women think about good things to eat. American women worry about bad things to eat." The French rarely go to gyms, never skip meals (or substitute with Weight Watchers), and generally do not count carbs, calories, kilos, unpronounceable words, or miles they have ran. And yet, they still do not get fat. This baffles many Americans who have not spent time in France, but after several months in Paris, I must concede that, empirically, the author is correct on all counts. French women eat more, exercise less, and stay thinner. So what's the secret?

Dr. Miracle emphasized the importance of being bien dans sa peau— "comfortable in your skin." Guiliano thus advocates maintaining a weight that looks and feels healthiest, not one at which an individual necessarily looks or feels thinnest. She presents two basic means for achieving this weight: toute est question d'équilibre (everything is a matter of balance), and quality over quantity. Through the course of the book, she beats these ideas into the reader (though not in so literal a manner as I would recommend).

The reader, if he or she so wished, could stop reading after the third chapter, in which Guiliano summarizes the basic causes of weight gain and, of course, how French women avoid them. She speaks at length of the common "offenders" which everyone eats, even if they offer little or no nutritional value. The short list: potato chips, bagels, pizza, fried foods, juices, beer, hard liquor, candy bars, ice cream, soda, and chocolate. Sounds like the typical college diet, no? It gets grimmer; the negative effects of these items (or any caloric intake, really) become that much worse if they are consumed immediate before bed, as the body metabolizes much more slowly during sleep.

So, as you think of that EBA's pizza you ordered after four games of beer pong while straining to see your toes over your stomach, what is there to do? The first solution is water. Guiliano recommends drinking it nearly continuously throughout the day. Doing so makes it easier to shed water weight and prevents dehydration during sleep. That is, drink an entire Nalgene of water after a heavy night out. Can't keep it all down? Induce vomiting and start again. You will feel worlds better in the morning—and keep off most of the beer weight you would have gained.

Water can even, Guiliano claims, delay or prevent excess hunger by giving a sense of fullness; try drinking a few glasses thirty minutes before eating. Water can also substitute for the coffee that most students drinking by the gallon. As the author explains, "In France, coffee is usually reserved for breakfast or the end of a meal, and not consumed all day, as in America. If you're not having water before your first cup, you'll start the day in the red, as the caffeine drains your water reserves (which have already been depleted during sleep)." Similarly, as a substitute for beer, she offers not hard liquor (one shot of which, to the dismay of pre-gaming freshmen girls, contains more calories than a can of Keystone), but wine, which is full of beneficial nutrients in addition to alcohol. A good suggestion, although I don't expect fraternity basements to be engulfed in a sea of red wine anytime soon.

In addition to pontificating about water, Guiliano offers up succinct advice on a number of controversial nutritional topics. An American hamburger bun, or doughy pre-dinner bread, eaten regularly, probably qualifies as excessive. However, a slice or two of a crusty baguette, eaten with dinner, rather than before, is no worse for your health than a piece of fruit, and is a sufficient source of starch. Likewise with chocolate, quality is the key; eating small amounts of dark chocolate, which has a higher concentration of pure cocoa, and the opiates found therein, satisfies cravings with less caloric intake.

The most insightful advice, however, comes when Guiliano discusses eating behavior rather than specific foods. This comes in the form of dictates sprinkled throughout the text which, like most of the other content, are fairly self-evident but rarely followed. (Sample nugget: "Eating too much of anything will make you fat.") Guiliano also suggests eating only at mealtimes, using nice place settings, chewing slowly, etc. The combined implication: eating should be a ritual in itself, not an interruption of the flow of the day. A corollary is portion sizes; Americans are notorious for eating over-sized meals, usually in several large gulps. The French routinely have three, sometimes four, courses in every meal. The difference is that each contains only one or two items, slowing the speed of food take and allowing the diner to appreciate each taste. Additionally, one must avoid snacking, especially on foods found in a box or package.

Guiliano spends a significant portion of the manuscript discussing the importance of fresh food, which contains no artificial (fattening) preservatives, and is found much more frequently in France than in America. Regarding exercise, she remarks that many people "exercise so that they end up with oversize appetites just to refuel their bodies" and end up consuming even more, without fully burning off the excuse food. As a better means of staying in shape, Guiliano proposes little things: walking instead of driving, walking up the stairs instead of taking the elevator, getting a case from the fridge yourself instead of pounding the table and screaming for beer.

To be sure, much of the material in French Women is glued-to-your-forehead obvious (if infrequently heeded) advice. Guiliano author proposes more of a lifestyle than a specific diet, but it seems to be a lifestyle that gets results. The book is a blindingly simple read, interspersing anecdotes and recipes with practical advice. The reader can skip over nearly any or all parts of the book, if so desired; more frustrating sections become constant restatements of the premise that "This is the French way, so it must be better." The frequent two- or three-word French phrases dispersed throughout the book do nothing to alleviate this occasional ennui. However, the sections in which Guiliano gives simple, straightforward advice without being preachy are as valuable as they are intuitive. The work loses steam near the end as Guiliano moves away from food and into other aspects of healthy living; while these additional principles are equally valuable, they are not as clearly explained and are not accompanied by the the narratives and recipes that make the initial sections so easy to read.

By far the worst thing about French Women is that I did not get around to publishing it first. However, since I took the time to read it even while dallying on the Continent, I recommend to you, dear reader, to save the money on the book and extrapolate from what I have told you. Then send your dollars my way, preferably in Euros; the exchange rate is killing me!

One Good Thing About the French

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